This winter moved quietly. Nothing stood out as particularly remarkable, and yet it didn’t feel empty either. I spent a good part of it absorbed in Rhythm of War. I hadn’t expected to get so drawn in, but page after page kept pulling me deeper, and before I knew it, entire evenings had passed. It’s been a while since a book took over like that.
The rest was a steady flow of familiar things. Morning walks while the frost still clung to the ground, tea warming my hands, and a sky shifting slowly into day. There’s something in those cold, pale mornings that clears the mind in a way nothing else quite does.
Now and then, I stopped by a café. If I arrived early enough, I could order a croissant still warm from the oven—always with chocolate, my favorite. Especially when it’s freshly baked, there’s a kind of quiet satisfaction to it. Nothing symbolic. Just a pastry done well, at the right moment.
Some evenings I’d pause just to take in the atmosphere—how the air felt, the way the light fell. Not for any particular reason. Just because something in it felt worth noticing.
A couple of quotes stayed with me during this time. One was: “Not everything in life that is important is measurable. Not everything that is measurable is important.” It’s a reminder that the weight of something doesn’t always show up in numbers or clear outcomes. That there’s a different kind of value in how something feels, or what it moves in you quietly over time.
Another was about the inner voice—and how there’s a difference between a coach and a critic. Both push you, but one believes in you. That distinction seemed worth remembering, especially when working toward things that don’t unfold quickly. The tone we take with ourselves matters more than it seems.
Looking back, these weeks weren’t marked by milestones. But they left something behind all the same. A texture, maybe. A tone. Enough to remember them by.
